


to be in general

by Code16



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Beating, CBT, Come as Lube, Fondling, Gags, M/M, Molestation, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, PWP without Porn, Paddling, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Torture, Unfairness, Verbal Abuse, Whipping, You still probably don't want to meet my id, group rape, unreasonable physical resilience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:15:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8061430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: "If it weren’t a fair bet already, John might have said he’d had a pretty good idea of what would be happening when the four guards show up together as his escort detail. It doesn’t take four guards to bring him to the whipping post."(or, another iteration of John the free-for-all)





	1. Hallway

**Author's Note:**

> General warning: again, this is PwP of torture-side noncon. Proceed accordingly.
> 
> Chapter 3 is a NSFW image.
> 
> Warnings outside of tags: sexual slurs. In chapter three part of the 'Unfairness' involves a moment of punishment/a threat of punishment over some of the previous [nonconsensual] proceedings, to their victim. Brief could-be-suicidal-ideation in chapter three.
> 
> The term 'corrective' for a medical technology is borrowed from Imperial Radch, though mine come with their own details.

If it weren’t a fair bet already, John might have said he’d had a pretty good idea of what would be happening when the four guards show up together as his escort detail. It doesn’t _take_ four guards to bring him to the whipping post. It wouldn’t really take one - he knows perfectly well where the post is, and if he’d decided to try not going this time four guards wouldn’t have cut it either. And while the unlikelihood of being able to walk that far on his own is pretty definitely in his near future, that’s the part that comes after the post, not before. 

So he’s considerably less than surprised when the guards circle around him in a way entirely lacking formality, when their part in the walk consists mostly of the kinds of thing not really implied by ‘escort’.

As happens sometimes, there’s an escalation to it. Poking at him’s mostly to tease each other - _‘oh look I touched him can you do that’._ But given that of course they can, it doesn’t take long to get on from there. Quick touches start to linger, palm and pinch his ass, cup his genitals, pet and caress. Hands find their way under his shirt, stroke his chest and stomach. The first guard to shove a hand down his pants takes his time with it, fondles at his dick and scrotum, brushes fingers down, around, squeezes warmly.

“Aw, come on, don’t keep him to yourself.” John stopped when the guard did, tried to edge sideways as he could so hallway traffic’s not completely blocked (no one’s come by yet, but that doesn’t always last). They push his pants down, take advantage of the new access with eager, heavy hands. Come up behind him, hot breath at his ear and fingernail weals on his skin and cocks pressing into him through rough fabric. 

“Fuck, my dick’s not gonna wait.”

“Mm, and there was the virtue of temperance.”

“Hey, I said-”

“I brought the gag, I get to play.” 

The gag’s fastened in, John pushed down, a zipper in front of his face and the smell of the guard before the cock’s in his mouth. The guard settles himself before thrusting much, pats John’s cheek. “Nice to have your other hole back, mm? Much easier for, ahh, that’s it. Much easier for the sharing.”

That seems to be accurate prescience. It’s not long before John feels his legs being spread apart, a weight settling down.

“I’m not gonna fuck him, I just-” There’s fumbling and then a dick sliding against him, exposed now, hot and hard. 

“Carey you’re taking forever. Come or save it already. Julius, you’re not fooling no one.”

“What, you’re in a hurry now?” What must be Carey in his mouth rolls his hips but doesn’t speed up, voice on the quip barely affected.

“Just a few strokes.” Julius is less above it all, apparently, pants harshly as his dick jerks against John. It’s gone barely an instant before it’s back, pushing at his entrance. He’s longer than Carey, thick, pins John down too hard for John to smooth the way without it taken for struggling. Too far gone, apparently, for his aim to be any good; he misses twice before the tip finds its way in. He makes up for it with with his thrusts, single-minded and without finesse, forcing deeper.

“Oh yeah J, do that again.” Julius does it again. Carey, John thinks, smiles, pats John’s other cheek this time. “J’s just right for a whore like you, isn’t he. Or has our slut just been lazy?” 

(“This wouldn’t happen so much if you’d give me a minute,” John had pointed out to the old doctor once, face down on the slab as he tended to be, the corrective in his rectum doing its work on the souvenirs of his latest paramours. “It’ll save time in the end. You can call it an investment.” The doctor had put the muzzle back on him and hadn’t said anything, waited for the corrective to be mostly done before fucking him. 

“A week on the machine for insolence,” the Vice Head of Section said, at barracks three hours later, hands bruising John’s shoulders, the spiked cock sheath making him whimper despite himself. “We wanted investment advice, we’d have gotten a different mouth. You want prep, go fuck yourself.”) 

“Julius, I know you can’t count, but I’d think even you know what a few is. Carey, get your Stoic on on your own time.” 

“Not what that means - yeah J, don’t listen to him - not what that means, Maxim.”

John can’t tell if Julius is in fact listening, and if so to which of them, but he speeds up again, nearly shoving John across the floor if it weren’t for Carey’s counterweight. He comes buried inside of John - a piece of fortune, for once today; it’s often enough that people do but he can’t count on it, and by the second and third the difference gets pretty tangible. 

Carey, after a moment of nearly exaggerated slowness, finally finishes as well, reaches back to run a nail over the red lines on John’s stomach as he watches John cough and swallow. 

Julius is up before Carey, who takes the gag back out and pockets it before winking at John and zipping up again. They let John struggle up himself, arrange his clothes back. 

“Anyone else have any bright ideas, or can we get to where we’re actually supposed to be?” 

“Oh don’t be mad, Maxim, we don’t mind if you have a turn.” 

“Unlike some of us, _I_ have patience. Hurry up, whore, before we put you on a leash.”

(“I think you’d look good on a leash,” Carey whispers, pressing up behind him as they start walking, hand making its way around to squeeze John again, digging in. “I don’t always like it slow, mm?”)

\---

They make it to the yard without any more extended stops, though Maxim calls a shorter one near the end.

“Hold him,” he says when they halt at his gesture, then turns and swings his knee up between John’s legs. _His_ aim is excellent; John collapses, kept from the ground again by Julius and the guard whose name he hasn’t heard. They pull him up, force his legs apart with theirs when Maxim swings again.

“Interesting patience there, Maxim.” Carey either has terrible timing or did it on purpose; Maxim’s next blow is the hardest yet.

“Shut up, Carey.” The other two let him go when Maxim stops, which is also bad timing; John ends up on hands and knees, pulling in air and fighting nausea (throwing up on the floor happens sometimes, but he’d really prefer to make it one less time, if he can). “He’ll be _facing_ the post, if you didn’t know that. You, up already, you want to crawl, do it when we’re not busy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note, when the Vice Head of Section says 'a week' he does not mean literally the entire week. This is a week like 'a week of French class', not a week like 'a week in Norway'.


	2. Post

The post, like most things at this point, looks about the same as always. The yard is as empty as the halls had been (which means they’re not late, which is something), the post and the chains that hang from it standing up stark in the middle. He can fasten himself into it, if he needs, all but the last wrist, but today’s not a day for that. They lock him in, alternate testing the chains and another round of hands on him.

“His legs far enough apart, you think?”

“How much room do you _need_?”

“For stance, you idiot”

(Carey squeezes again, pinches, seems to like it all the more now that Maxim’s interlude has John shuddering at it, forcing most of what he has at not jerking against the chains.)

“Our patient leader gets first call, now.” The silent guard either doesn’t object to that, or doesn’t object enough to talk. John’s pants are yanked down again, Maxim coming up behind him. (His shirt’s off already this time, tossed down on the other side of the post. Ready for the whip.)

Maxim fucks like he’d hit, impeccable aim and the focused force of a soldier’s training. The silent guard who follows him takes his time, not as slow as Carey but deliberate, rolling thrusts like a train’s wheels beginning to move.

“Now you’re just showing off,” John hears Maxim’s voice after, isn’t sure who it’s to until Carey laughs.

“What can I say, the sex dice love me.”

“If Carey gets, I get.” There’s a zipper, fumbling and cursing, Julius presumably trying to stroke himself hard enough to deliver on his pronouncement.

“It’s fine Julius, you can go first this time. Don’t tear it off now.”

“Fuck you.”

No one makes the obvious rejoin to that. Julius seems to do something like almost tripping over his pants on his way to John; John hears at least Carey laugh, and Julius when he gets to him is livid enough to defer on the fucking after all.

“Are you laughing at me? I’ll teach you to laugh at me!” Saying ‘no’ is not particularly likely to help, at this point, John thinks, however true it might be. “I’ll, I’ll-”

“Oh, this should be fun.” John’s not sure if they were meant to have heard that. “Here, J, catch.” Whatever it is, apparently Julius doesn’t, because he steps back, bends down, then straightens in a different stance. And - they’re in the whipping post’s yard, after all. John grips the chains, slides his feet along the ground. Tries, in the moment he has, to brace. _Stance_.

“Fresh slut, I’ll teach you.” Julius swings.

The rod comes down across his thighs and ass, a soldier's strength at full rage given a meter of leverage and a centimeter’s focused width to strike. Stance isn’t enough; holding the chains isn’t enough. But that’s what the post is for. He collapses and it holds him up, cuffs digging into his wrists, legs trying to find purchase again, preempted by each new lash, burned across him.

Julius throws the rod aside. “I’ll teach-”

He goes incoherent again as he shoves into John, coarse grip pulling him apart, fingernails sinking into the stripes of the rod. True to his word the pace is punishing, his weight pushing John into the post, each thrust rattling him against it. If there’s any mercy in it it’s that it’s quick; he didn’t have much and he consumed it all, finishing barely minutes in, stilling buried inside John again. He spits on the ground when he’s done, gives John a last wordless slap before fastening himself up and walking away.

\---

“I did say it’d be fun.” John realizes he’s missed time when he hears Carey behind him, close already. “Get up now - that’s on your feet up, not hanging up, I’m not a fan of the dangling. Don’t worry, I don’t have Julius’s trouble. His cock against John when he walks over all the way seems a demonstration, because he doesn’t use it yet, slides two fingers into John instead. “There we go.” His voice, light as ever, belies his motions; his fingers are punctilious, finding every place that makes John flinch and tense and pressing in. “That’s what I like to see.” He pauses when he withdraws, lays his hand over John’s ass. “Mm. Though even Julius can have a good idea.” Compared to what’s come before it, the slap hardly counts as a beating, but over the marks from the rod and with Carey’s also not insignificant strength, it makes its impression. As does the second, and the next, and the next.

Carey delivers about a dozen before he stops again, hand running over John’s ass where it’s made its mark. “I realize you can’t very much, but I’m gonna need you to move a bit here.” He wants John more bent over, hips back, and John figures this might finally be fucking but Carey’s position is, not quite like Julius but-. “Fun fact about me - ambidextrous.” And John realizes Carey’s other hand hasn’t been in his sight right about just as the paddle comes down.

Carey, unlike Julius, isn’t furious. He’s methodical instead, rigorous, comprehensive coverage and then returning to targets of high impact for the focus he feels is their due, laying his hand back now and then like it’s a gauge. “But you’re clever, for a slut; I daresay you’ve figured it out.” John has. Another beating like Julius’s and he’d need a corrective, acute up front but erased at least in part before so long. Carey’s attention will keep him below the threshold, left to heal the long way around.

Carey stops again. “Well, let’s see how we’re doing.” He lets the paddle fall, pats John’s ass as his fingers make their way inside again, steps closer to reach around. Holds John in his hand like he’s weighing him before moving on. There’s no protection of clothes between them this time, nor others crowding. Carey explores, sharp nails and unrelenting fingers, finds the keys to his new canvas then starts timing his hands against each other till John feels like some kind of horrid instrument, bites his lip and shakes in place and tries to force everything else back.

“There we go.” Carey gives him a last squeeze, pats his ass again as he turns, takes his hand to line himself up. His fingers pull out. His cock pushes in, one full stroke, deliberate, stretching out John’s hole again, every abused inch of him laid bare and raw for it. John nearly screams.

“See, they say I take forever - and I do, of course.” Carey rolls his hips, thorough, indulgent, thrusts deep and leisurely. “But, ahh - worth doing right, you know. Get out of it - oh, yes - what you put into it.” He changes angles, works fingers into John again, fingernails scraping up and down.

His voice had gone breathy, breaking on his last works, but it levels out again as the fingers withdraw, his hand caressing John’s ass before another slap. “Tighten up now. I can make you but you won’t like it.” John does it, another almost scream, so far beyond sore it seems barely worth the word. “”I think I - oh - got the right end of the bargain - ah, _fuck._ ” Carey thrusts, hard and deep, faster now. Comes finally, a last roll of his hips and a gasp then going languid, sated.

“Oh, yeah.” His weight’s on John, boneless for a moment, before he pushes himself up, pulls out, rising like glutted after a sumptuous meal. “Definitely nice to have you around, slut.” He gives John’s ass a last pat, feels him up where his fingernails bruised. “Have fun.”

And he’s gone, the rest of them leading or following, and John is alone in the empty yard.


	3. (an interlude with illustration)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A (NSFW) image illustration

Commission from the awesome [@metalarmedhobbit](https://tmblr.co/mvRjouOa9Yx08c3QIK4YFVw)

Combination of my description and artist’s interpretation


	4. Executors

He isn’t sure how long he’s there. Ten minutes, fifteen maybe, except he’s lost time already, can’t fully bet that it isn’t that again. (The executor guards either know about his escort or just like to make him wait sometimes. Or both).

“What the fuck is this?” John cranes his head around (it’s worth the punishment when he hasn’t seen them yet, some idea of what’s coming to him.)  The main executor has the whip coiled at his belt, easy and loose (John’s stomach clenches at seeing it), his eyes surveying the yard. He’s not the one who’s spoken though; that’s the other, a shorter whip like a hunting crop in his hand.

“Eyes front.” That is the main executor. He doesn’t announce the punishment - waiting till it starts, maybe (John’s chest, stomach, squeeze again). John obeys; can still feel it though, when the other strides up towards him, before the lash of the whip to the bottom of his ass makes it more than obvious.

“I _said_ what the fuck is this?” It’s not hard to imagine what he means - the escort guards hadn’t bothered cleaning up, hadn’t pulled his pants back up. The rod and the paddle strewn on the ground, come dripping out of him and down his thighs, his ass red and bruised over the more vivid stripes. Which still doesn’t exactly let John know what to _say_ , about it.

”Fucking whore.” He can feel the end of the whip on the inside edge of his cheek, like the executor is going to spread them with it. “I ought to whip that hole of yours till the next time someone puts a cock in you you _learn_ some lesson.” In John’s experience, the ‘next time’ means usually about immediately - even the ones who took care of that part before they started tended to have a friend or two along. Nor is there really much to be learned in it, altogether. (Which, thinking about that might be some good for not thinking about how much that’s going to _hurt_ right now, but it’s not like that’s going to help him when it _happens_.)

In maybe his second piece of luck that day, it doesn’t. The executor only gives him a few more lashes, stops at the main’s short ‘enough’. (Executors know this work better than guards tend to. The new lashes throb, vicious, but he doesn’t think he’ll need a corrective still - or get one, therefore. Carey would probably be pleased.)

“You’re the boss, gonna go first?”

“Me? Oh, no. There’s a reason I’m in this business. You can go ahead if you want.”

“That mean I can practice more? Cuz I’ve got reason too you know.”

“Knock yourself out. Careful though, take a look at him. Someone’s gone to some trouble to make sure the doctor knows to leave him alone there. Wouldn’t want to spoil their work.”

“Tsheh, come on. You said yourself I’m good at this. Correctives are for your kind of thing, anyway.” He taps his whip against John again, lining up. “Alright whore, you want to beg me to fuck you sooner, now’s the time.” _Chains. Stance._ John feels the tremors through himself again, preemptively. Might perfectly much consider begging, at this point, except that he’s terrible at it, keeps making people only more angry when he tries. “No? Have it your way then.” The whip snaps forward again.

Junior or not, the executor wasn’t idly bragging. The stripes land in neat parallels, maximum efficient use of space before the next round starts to cross them. His skin doesn’t break; the places where it’s broken from the rod tear no further. John’s aware of that with the edge of his mind that isn’t taken by every fresh stroke, the new overlaying the old but never enough to eclipse them in between, like the scream in a full band’s highest note.

 

“Well.” The executor stops finally, breathing hard. “That’s - that’s definitely practice.” He hangs his whip on the opposite side of the post to John, hands on his zipper as he walks around. “You know what, no, this is a mess, I’m not having it.” He disappears from view again, presumably to pick up the rod and paddle because he never touches John, is audibly dusting off his hands when he returns. “That’s better. Professional atmosphere. Not like some people.” John thinks that’s aimed at the other guards, not him, for once, though since they’re away and he’s chained to a post it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference.

The executor spends another few moments poking at him, traces the lines his whip had left. “Oh, I’m good. I’m very good. They should give me something nice. Funny, guess you could say they did.” _Would you shut up and fuck me already_ , John’s not really tempted to say, though maybe if the escort had been just Maxim and the silent guy-. “You know, they say whipping’s good for this - brings the blood to the area, it’s like massage. Still think it should be better if it’s on the spot, but that’s not gonna work if you’re not open, and I can’t hold you open if my hand’s busy, and obviously you can’t right now. Maybe sometime when your hands are free. Or, hmm, is that what that one device was for-.”

John’s not particularly tempted to explain the differences between a whipping and a massage, either - lest the executor decide to go find this apparent device, or else give the doctor some ideas about massages. Can’t quite say again it doesn’t come to mind, though.

Fortunately - or unfortunately, but what else is there - he doesn’t have much more time to be tempted before the executor gets on with it after all. The sound of the zipper, bracing against the near-agony of the breach - “Huh, are you bleeding?” The executor draws part way out; John imagines him looking down at his dick. _No people fuck me with food coloring, what do you think_. The executor seems to be a bad influence on him. John gives himself an extra reminder to shut up - company of people not exactly doing much for him right now doesn’t mean he’s eager for the machine. The executor gives what feels like a shrug - “Guess they know what they’re doing” - and pushes back inside.

It’s quick, at least; doesn’t take as long as the whipping, even. He adjusts himself after he finishes before calling back to the main. “Sure you don’t want a go?”

“You trying avoid the work now?” John can hear the smile in the main’s voice, so incongruous to him here that it’s jarring, like a blow over a nerve.

“What? I’d never.”

“Well, go ahead and do the checks then.”

“Yes, sir!”

This time the executor touching him feels like a script. Probing his cuffs and the chains, hands up his back to check for damage, over his arms and his legs for position.

“All in order, sir!”

“Well done. Clear around?” The executor steps away from him, over and out of the path of the whip.

“All clear.” John realizes that he suddenly can’t breathe. That’s terrible timing, he’ll need to, but it’s beyond him, like he’d been somehow holding off an avalanche by not looking at it and then it had come from behind him and buried him all at once. _Chains. Stance. Chains. Stance. ChainsStance-_

 

He hears the whip uncoil. “Three extra for your eyes; you’ve been warned before.” Eyes, eyes, what had he done with his eyes, why the hell had he done something with his eyes-

“Thirty-eight, start to finish” says the main, and John can hear the whip sing through the air.  

The first five, seven are horrible. It hits him, and he gets a moment to think that there must be a mistake, it can’t hurt this much, he would have remembered and he’d have done something, anything, so that they’d stop, they have to stop- (It’s not a mistake and they’re not going to stop and whatever he tried it wasn’t _enough-_ ). (He collapses again; doesn’t bother trying to get back up.)

After that it settles in and for a few it gets better, his body getting the memo and marshalling everything, his muscles arranging himself without him, mind feeling suddenly like floating.

And then everything isn’t enough, and the rest become more than horrible, his mind dragged back into his body, pinned down, bound into place by each new lash, agonizing, and he knows he screams, knows that matters somehow but he can’t-

“You know, if you want to fuck him while he’s conscious, you’re going to run out of time.” The whip has stopped. He isn’t sure why. Doesn’t think it’s the end - that would be kind, so kind, which probably means it isn’t true. (It would be kind if it killed him, also, maybe, but he doesn’t think that’s true either).

“You do have a point.”

John’s not really sure about being conscious - that usually involves parts like knowing where he is, or moving, and neither one seems to be particularly around right now. But when he’s unconscious being fucked doesn’t usually hurt this much, so probably he is after all.  (There’s hands on his back, thumbs digging into him where he’s bleeding, and he screams without opening his mouth and he remembers how to move after all but it doesn’t matter because he’s still _here-_ )

“You earn your marks in timing, I’ll give you that. With honors, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

The whip swings again. John remembers something important about numbers, but if he thinks it’s the right one that probably means it isn’t true again. ( _Please, please_ , he says, and sometimes he thinks it’s ironic, that he can beg but only when it doesn’t matter. But they don’t, and so it doesn’t, and-)

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.
> 
> Title is short for 'to be in general use', which I ran into when I was googling 'general use'.


End file.
